Bad Day
by MacaroniWithExtraCheese
Summary: Six wakes up in the morning and he knows what's about to happen. Rated for child abuse... pardon the clichè's.


Right, this popped into my head and I thought It wasn't really that far fetched... and so I wrote it :P. I am aware that a better writer could and would have done this piece a lot more justice. But I'm giving myself credit for trying.

Of course if some kick ass writer wants to cleave my head Six's Katanna... make sure it doesn't spill on the carpet... I just had waxed :D

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><p>Today was a bad day.<p>

He woke up to feeling of lead in his stomach and weights on his arms. He was tired and a quick look at the blinking alarm clock told him why.

_4:35_

It would start soon.

He could feel it coming, like the start of a sickening migraine, the Tsunami growing in the distance and bearing ever closer. The small warning signs it offered tremors and a disappearing tide to prepare you for a day of pain. It boiled just beneath the surface, the feel of complete hopelessness and a whisper of fear.

His eyes blinked rapidly.

The need to cry out in despair was overwhelming, but he forced it down, he never cried or wailed. But it was like trying to stop the Tsunami from taking your beach house, the crash was inevitable. The feeling boiled further up and slowly consumed him, building up to the brink of explosion if he didn't do it soon.

Teeth clattered together, his hands and legs trembled with the anxiety that accompanied this feel of loss and fear. He stumbled from his bed, his breath hitching in his throat as he tried to take deep calm breaths. They turned into broken hiccups as his control started to slip.

He blinked rapidly before sowing his eyes tight shut.

He will _not _cry.

His body was wracked with uncontrollable tremors and finally he collapsed, every imperfection of his carpet burnt into his mind and the inane to fix everything burnt into his fingers and eyes.

They had to be perfect!

"_You're a fucking useless piece of shit" the small boy was grabbed by the back of the neck and shoved forwards. He crashed face first into the floor and gently skied on the newly washed tiles._

"_I-" he stopped and tried to calm his breathing, "I did what you" he swallowed, "asked-"_

"_This." he gestured to the floor, "Is not clean, you're mother will kill herself all over again I she saw this." He growled, his eyes were as cold as ice and the voice hard as stone in the small kitchen. The spittle hung from his greying beard. "You have to be perfect. In everything, even this" _

_He shut his eyes, trying to forget mama and her cold eyes. "I'm sorry-" he started, but the sudden backhand shut him up quick enough. He flew backwards, knocking his head against the cupboard, but quickly bit his lip to stop from crying out. Crying was for weak little boys with nothing better to do._

"_Now do it again,"_

"_Yes, father" he said as steadily as he could, avoiding direct eye contact and praying this would please him. It always seemed to change so quickly._

He gritted his teeth and stormed to the bathroom. Sucking in deep breaths to calm himself, he grabbed a pair of brown gloves and a small bag on the counter before stumbling back into the bedroom. Checked everything first, would not do to be caught without a tool, can't go back to get another, it just won't do. Tweezers, small plastic bag and elastic. He started in the right corner.

He knelt down and carefully proceeded to pick up the small specks of flint, debris and crumbs. He placed them in the small plastic back, holding it lightly in his left hand, while the right hand worked carefully and with steady perfection.

Always right...

... always the right corner.

Had to be right, always right. Never left, never _ever_ left.

"_What are you doing?" _

_The dread pooled into his stomach. He knew what was coming._

"_Writing, sir" he said softly._

"_Writing?" his father said stiffly, "With your left hand?"_

"_Yes," it was barely a whisper now._

_A pause._

"_Wait here," His father disappeared and for a moment he thought about returning to his practice. But he was too scared to keep writing, fear of what was to come, his father would never leave something like this._

_Never._

_And sure enough the heavy boots returned to his room. He turned to see his papa with a long rope. Without a word he grabbed his left and shoved him forwards against the table and then proceeded to tie his left arm behind his back. _

"_You'll stay like this until you can learn to write," He tied the knot tightly, "Like a _normal _person. Only abnormal people write with their left hand."_

"_Yes, papa" he said as neutral as he could manage, the tremor barely noticeable._

He continued carefully down the carpet, every flint, every spec was meticulously picked up and put away. But he couldn't take too long, never too long, he had to work fast. Else he was considered lazy. Laziness was not something _he_ could fathom or tolerate.

"_Took your dear sweet time?"_

I tried to work carefully, papa.

"_If you like standing, you can stand here all you want"_

It's raining papa.

"_I know" _he could still see that bearded sneer_, "I'll be watching you" _his voice still echoed in his head_, "If you sit, you can start over again,"_

I'm cold papa.

"_Should have thought of that before you took two hours to clean the boat,"_

Finally the one side was finished; he turned and carefully made his way to the door. His eyes blinked rapidly as he tried to do and move everything as perfectly as he could. If he was perfect, then he would take him back. If he'd been perfect mama would never have died, if he'd been perfect... papa would have kept him.

The door opened.

Light pooled from the hallways, pouring into his room, but light was good and clean. It was what followed after that sent him into a panic.

_Shoes._

"N-no!" he screamed, standing on his knees and holding up his right hand to fend them off. They were talking, whoever it or they was, but he wasn't listening. His floor was ruined! "Ge-get," he gritted his teeth as the wretched memories wouldn't stop flowing... the final straw for his father, the final excuse to throw away his own son and only child.

He tried to breathe.

"P-pl...ease,"

He tried to calm down.

"Ge-et..."

He tried to loosen his jaw.

"O..."

His throat muscles went tight shut.

But he couldn't.

"_Get out!" He roared._

"_P-pa-"_

"_I said out!" he was flung from the door physically, "I tried! I tried to make you normal and perfect, just like your mother wanted you. But you!" he pointed a slender finger into the boy's face, "You're a stubborn retard! You want to be a freak!"_

"_I-I di-"_

"_Leave!"_

_The door was slammed shut in his face. He winced half expecting it to hit from the sheer force, but the onslaught never came. He looked down at his small bag filled with a few pieces of bread, a clean change of clothes and a toothbrush._

_He looked back at the old, well oiled door and wondered for a moment if he could ask his father if he could try again. But he could barely form two words and that's the reason why his father hated him so much. Because he wasn't normal and perfect. It was the only home he'd ever known and he wasn't welcome here, not anymore._

_He left then, walking down the small pathway leading to the buss stop. Sitting down on the small bench he watched the road, looking for the bus._

_He'd never even got to say good bye._

_And finally after seven years of pressure and anger and discipline he finally found the courage to cry._

Slender arms encircled him and they held on tight and through bleary eyes he could barely make out the face of Holiday. He tensed at their close proximity, but slowly he calmed down. A voice whispered to him, her voice, telling him, asking him what was wrong. Why was he scared, but he didn't want to answer. He didn't want her to know how useless he really was. He shook his head viciously and tried to tell her as such, but no words would escape the block in his throat.

Her arms slackened.

_No!_

He didn't want her to leave... not now, he didn't want to be alone, and he needed some anchor, something to hold onto.

"N-no..." he managed, forcing it through a clamped jaw and the shivers wracking his body.

He held on as tightly as he could. The final straws of self control falling away into the ocean of despair and sorrow.

The arms tightened and he heard her voice promising him she would never leave. That she would never ever leave_ him,_ not for the world, not for anything.

And that part he did believe.

Even if it was just for today.


End file.
